


For Want of Love

by tailor31415



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: From Sex to Love, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Realism, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 04:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tailor31415/pseuds/tailor31415
Summary: The spell was simple, if you knew the terms. The most simple and classic of spells: one broken with the help of true love.Sidney Crosby wakes up, alone and forgotten, and learns through the course of a season how sometimes you don't need to know the question to find the right answer.





	For Want of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PatriciaKoiFish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatriciaKoiFish/gifts).



> Thanks so much to my wonderful beta, [ dawn-phoenix](https://dawn-phoenix.tumblr.com/), who was immeasurably instrumental in writing Geno's dialogue.
> 
> PatriciaKoiFish, hope this satisfies your request, even if it's not exactly what you asked for. ;)

 

He opened his eyes and winced at the bright glint of sunlight that immediately struck him, clenching his hands tightly in the blades of grass.

His face was hot, so he must have been sleeping in the grass for a while. Maybe he had fallen asleep in the park but –

_‘Have you ever loved?’_

He paused, shaking his head slightly and scanned the area. It was the park, a park. A park he didn’t know and he didn’t know why he was there and –

_‘Loved?’ He laughed, feeling the skin crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and shook his head slightly. ‘Does hockey count?’_

He was lying just off the path, on a shallow slope of grass, and he was wearing running shoes and shorts and a shirt with a faded name on the front, but he didn’t remember going for a run and he actually didn’t remember –

_‘My dear, dear boy. No. That doesn’t.’_

He didn’t remember anything at all and, breath coming fast, he fumbled at his pockets. His wallet was empty, except for a library card.

For a library in Pittsburgh.

With a carefully penned ‘Sidney Crosby’ on the signature line.

He swallowed hard, pushing himself off the ground, and glanced from side to side. His eyes caught on the bridge in the distance, on the shining tall buildings, and he dropped his head to stare at the card again.

He was alone, he was in Pittsburgh, and he couldn’t remember his name.

 

 

“Coach Sid, Coach Sid!” Sidney turned from where he was gathering the pucks carefully into the net to smile at the young players skating towards him.

“Hey, guys,” he greeted as their little skates spread bits of shavings against his own. “And girls,” he quickly added, catching the one wobbly skater who was flailing for some sort of way to stop.

Leaning on his stick, carefully taped in a style mimicking Sidney’s, one of the boys asked, voice cheerful and a bit wistful, “Are you really going to the game tonight?”

Sidney nodded as he looked down into the four hopeful faces. Mike had got him the ticket, since he had some business at the arena and would be there that night anyway. They’d hang out before the game and during intermissions and Mike had even said they might get to stop by the locker room after to see the players.

As the little goalies started chirping and crowing over their expectations for the night’s game, Sidney glanced down the ice. The majority of the kids were down at the other end, listening to the head of the program discuss the day’s plan for exercises and a short scrimmage. Mike was standing there next to him and he glanced up briefly and flashed a grin Sidney’s way before calling something out to the players.

The grin was familiar – the same one from when Sidney had looked up at a street hockey game and seen Mike watching him play. The man had never really explained just why he had reached out to Sidney, or how he had even swung for Sidney to get this job, but Mike had brought him home from the shelter, shoved him in a guest room, and Sidney had never asked any more questions.

He trusted Mike, for some unexplainable reason, and Mike trusted him just as confusedly. Sidney huffed out a little sigh before smiling down again at the kids circling him. They beamed at him and one of them dropped into an attempt at the butterfly, asking for Sidney’s help.

Reaching down and gently pointing out the best way to hold her skate blade against the ice, Sidney tried to push the thoughts out of his head. Most of his life was pretty confusing right now – he still couldn’t remember anything but his name, he had no idea if there was anyone looking for or missing him, and he was having strange dreams every night.

The Penguins game later might put the dreams to rest for a bit, or so he hoped. Every night, he saw the bright lights of Consol, heard the crisp cutting of blades through the ice, and felt the vibration of a screaming crowd in his chest. He always woke up exhausted, wishing for something he couldn’t name and couldn’t remember, and he was almost to the point of dreading sleep.

He skated out of the net, leaving the space for one of the players to swap in, and set his mind on coaching instead.

 

 

The atmosphere inside the arena was electrifying and Sidney felt like his skin was itching with nerves as he followed Mike around the hallways. They stuck to the equipment areas, mainly because Mike was supposed to be checking on some donations for the youth program, and Sidney felt himself go more and more tense as every door and hall resounded eerily in his mind.

Almost as if he’d been there before.

“Okay, if you don’t want to watch the players go out from down here,” Mike said, glancing over at Sidney to see him shake his head, “We’d better get you upstairs now then.”

They exchanged a grin and Mike waved his hand towards one hallway as they moved forward. One of the doors was open as they passed and Sidney heard, “WBS is out of town tonight and somehow all these guys are unavailable – I think it’s that flu going around.”

“So we don’t have a back-up?” a man replied, frustration clear in his tone. Sidney glanced over at Mike and the other raised his eyebrows slightly. There was a pause and the man in the room added, “It’ll be fine. Fleury is backing Murray tonight – we’ll be okay. Thanks for –”

The conversation faded out of hearing range as they rounded the corner and Mike gave Sidney a slap on the shoulder. “Stairs are right through this door here. I’ll meet you there for intermission later.”

Sidney hurried up the stairs and spotted the players still out on the ice for warmups. Glancing around, he spotted the sign for his section and headed that way, half-listening to the crowd as some sort of muttering broke out. The fans next to his seat were staring down at the ice and the woman turned to her friend, worriedly muttering, “I think he’s hurt.”

Turning to the ice, Sidney spotted the goalie in net, curled over on his side slightly on the ice. A trainer was already bent down next to him, hands gently resting on his shoulder and arm and, after a few moments, he helped the player off the ice. The muttering got louder and more concerned when the whole of the arena saw the name on the back of the jersey – Murray.

 

Sidney knew, from sports radio, from the paper that morning, from some little voice whispering in his head, that Flyers games were the absolute worst in Consol. The game eroded into a competition for hardest, most brutal hit by the end of the first period – Sidney feinting and dodging from side to side slightly in his seat as he pictured himself in the place of each Penguin smashed against the glass. The start of the second was no better, and Sidney watched with a furrowed brow as several Flyers swiped at Fleury when the puck was nowhere near the net.

For some reason, half of the worst hits weren’t even being called – some cynical part of his brain muttered about ratings and rivalry game night – and Sidney jumped to his feet several times to shout down at the officials as if he were a player on the bench. “Get them out of the paint,” he screamed once, when Fleury was knocked hard against the post for trying to shove a forward away from his legs. The women next to him glanced over and then took up the cry as well, until his section was screaming along with the whole arena during the TV time-out.

Something about the game was roiling the blood in his veins, and Sidney wanted to be down there somehow, either hitting the Flyers away from the puck or grabbing one of them by the collar and knocking him down with a punch.

Everything came to a head in the final minute of the period, when the Flyers were sending shot after shot Fleury’s way to no avail. The Penguins were slow to get in front of the puck, Sidney gritting his teeth in frustration as their goalie was peppered with shots, and two Flyers were sandwiching the net, stabbing their sticks towards Fleury’s skates.

He gloved the puck as one of his skates was shoved out from under him and he fell someway that resulted in a soft yelp, a jerk of his leg, and then he was down on the ice, curled over the captured puck as if to protect it.

Jumping to his feet, Sidney tried to peer over the shoulders of the fans doing the same in front of him. Two players were helping Fleury off the ice, while their captain was shouting down at the official who had been behind the net.

There were ten seconds left in the period and the game was 2-0. And the space for a goaltender was empty on the bench.

 

Mike grabbed Sidney’s arm when he opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and hurriedly dragged him through. “So, there’s a major problem,” Mike said, rushing Sidney down the hallway by the firm grip on his arm.

“Well, why are you rushing me around? I’m not –” Sidney started. He froze, setting his feet firmly on the ground and resisting Mike’s tug on his arm. “Mike, what are you planning?”

Tugging again, Mike sighed when Sidney stayed solidly, almost impossibly, planted. “So, the emergency goalies on their list can’t make it. And,” he rolled his eyes and tugged again, “Come on, I’ll explain while we walk.”

“No emergency goalies? How?” Sidney asked, baffled. If not the AHL goalies, a team normally had a list of guys ready to race down to the arena for the position. With a shock, he remembered that conversation they overheard earlier in the hallway.

“Yeah,” Mike muttered, eyes a little wild, “Some weird fluke or something, just –”

They rounded the corner and came face-to-face with two men caught up in a heated discussion.

“– and we can’t use Bales because of his seasons in the NHL, he’ll count against the cap,” the older one was saying, a man Sidney somehow recalled was Rutherford, the GM. He glanced at the other and saw it was the new head coach, Sullivan or something.

The two paused and glanced over at Mike and Sidney in unison. Mike cleared his throat and said quickly, “Hi, Mike Chiasson, I work at UPMC with the youth development programs. Anyway, I heard about your problem.”

“And?” Sullivan drawled, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes.

Mike leaned over and elbowed Sidney, hard, and he grit his teeth and tried to step on Mike’s foot in reply. The man dodged away, taking a step forward and saying, “I know someone.”

Sullivan suddenly stood up a bit straighter, dropping his hands to his sides. “Who? Someone here?”

“Well,” Mike drawled, reaching back for Sidney’s arm. He yanked him forward, even as Sidney tried to pull away, and waved his free hand at him. “This is Sidney. He’s one of the goalie coaches at UPMC.”

Sullivan’s narrow gaze jumped to Sidney and he looked him up and down. “You don’t have the build of a goalie,” he commented as he scrutinized him. “What level have you played at?”

“Uh,” Sidney started, trying to think of the best way to explain.

“Never mind,” Sullivan snapped. He waved a man over. “Dana, get this guy suited up.” He turned and jerked his chin at Rutherford, “Let’s get that contract ready.” Turning back, he jabbed his finger towards Sidney, “It’s just twenty minutes. We’re down by two already. My guys will keep the puck out of your zone as much as possible, so just try to make as many saves as you can.”

Sidney bobbed his head up and down as Sullivan gave him another searching look and then strode off down the hallway. As he stormed off, Sidney heard the coach mutter under his breath, “It’s like the universe wants this guy to play.” A man popped out from behind Rutherford as he too turned to leave, giving Sidney a tight smile and waving towards the locker room doors, “Come on, we’ll get you some equipment.”

Head spinning, Sidney glanced back at Mike and asked, “Can you grab my bag?” before turning to Dana. Mike took off down the hallway in his peripheral vision, heading towards the room where they had left their bags. “I have my equipment bag with me, actually. I just need a,” he paused, blinking hard, “A jersey.”

Dana nodded and glanced over his chest, from shoulder to shoulder and down to his waist. “That won’t be a problem. Do you have a number you’d like or should I just put on 31 or something?”

“I –” the breath caught in his throat and he cleared it slightly before softly asking, “Could I have 87?” He resisted the urge to reach up and touch the pendant hanging beneath his shirt. It was the only thing besides his library card that could identify him, a little metal ‘87’ on a golden chain.

The equipment manager raised his eyebrows slightly and then shrugged, “Yup, I can do that. And –”

Mike thumped the bag down at Sidney’s feet as he returned, a flush on his cheeks from his rush. “This is going to be so cool,” he muttered to Sidney. “Go on, you’re running out of time!”

“Right,” Sidney replied, grabbing up the straps of the bag, “So I just…”

He took a step forward as Dana keyed on the door code and swung the door of the locker room open for him.

The Pittsburgh Penguins locker room door.

Sidney swallowed hard and then stepped forward.

The dreams were one thing, he thought as he stepped through the door, but he never actually imagined walking into this room and playing for this team. The room went silent for a moment, guys glancing over at him and then looking towards the goalie stalls. Both were empty of players, with gear stacked high, and Sidney winced as he looked for somewhere to put down his bag and change.

He might have been here a thousand times in his sleep, but all those fantasies didn’t help much when he just wanted a chair and a wall to stare at as he stripped down.

“Here,” a voice called out, cutting through the side conversations. Sidney recognized the voice, that of the captain, Malkin, and he turned to see Malkin gesturing at an empty stall in the corner next to his own.

As he dropped his bag on the floor before the stall, Malkin asked, with that wry humor often in his voice in post-game interviews, “You’re special one-game goalie for us?”

Hunching down to unzip the bag, Sidney nodded. His heart was racing in his chest but he felt calm for some strange reason. The room felt right, almost comforting, and he could sense confidence settling down around his tight shoulders. As earnestly as possible, he answered, “That’s right. I’ll do my best to make the saves you all need to keep the team in the game.” He glanced up to see Malkin smirking at him and he slowly straightened out while clutching his pads to his chest.

“See this?” Malkin called over his shoulder to the team, “Goalie has bigger ass than me!” He grinned at Sidney as the other players wolf-whistled and laughed, and he leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “Is okay. No one thinks we win against Flyers anyway.”

 He felt a flush fall over his face as anger took the place of his nervousness and he opened his mouth to speak, but Malkin was already turning away with another smirk gracing his lips. Shaking his head at himself, Sidney quickly suited up instead.

Sidney was in the middle of uncapping his bottle for a drink when Dana bustled over. “Alright, here’s the contract, just sign there,” he put the contract down on the bench with a pen, “and I’ve got the jersey. Give it a try; I only have a few minutes to get everything else ready.” He shoved the jersey into Sidney’s hands and rushed off into the crowd of players. Guys were gathering by the door already, thumping each other on the chest and tapping helmets together to work themselves back into the mood for the game.

Sidney’s breath caught in his throat as he shook the jersey out before him. The ‘87’ was almost vibrant on the back, the letters of his name above shaking something loose in his chest that almost made tears come to his eyes.

“Dream come true?” some player asked as he passed by, with a small laugh.

Fighting his way into the jersey with full gear on, Sidney sighed and ran his hand against the logo on the front to smooth the material out. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he muttered under his breath as he snatched up his stick and helmet.

Malkin was waiting by the doors for the rest of the players to file out and he glanced at Sidney as he stepped forward. “Let’s go, boys!” he shouted over his shoulder and the team broke out in whoops and cheers as they barreled down the hallway. Malkin gave Sidney a grin and then smacked him, hard, on the ass as he passed by.

Sidney gulped as his heart thudded hard at the touch and something sparked in his head, like a little warm spot of joy. He had never even thought about what he might have been like before, but that reaction sure seemed like... Shaking his head, he took off down the hallway at a waddle, consciously aware of the other player’s presence at his back.

 

When he stepped out on the ice, when he heard the crowd cheering for their team, pain broke out in Sidney’s head as if he’d been hit with a pick-axe. He winced and skated along the boards to grab for his water bottle, writing off the pain as a reaction to the noise of the crowd.

The bottle was shoved into his hand as he was reaching and he lifted his gaze, catching on the ‘29’ on the jersey shoulder and finally landing on the goalie’s face. “Hey,” Fleury said, before jerking his chin at the bottle. Sidney took a quick drink and the player grinned at him. “I’m out of commission,” he added, darting a dark glance towards the other end of the ice and muttering, “Those shitheads.” Brightening back up, he continued, “But I came out so I can give you some tips.”

Sidney gulped again and nodded, dropping the bottle back onto the bench shelf.

Fleury laughed, before wincing and shifting on the bench. “Just relax, first of all!” He looked over Sidney’s gear, “Your stick is pretty good, just keep it tight to the ice since they’ve been trying to sneak it in a lot today.” He gave a little shrug, “As long as you stop what anyone could stop, it’ll be okay.” With another shrug and smirk, he added, “No one expects you to be me.”

He laughed at the expression on Sidney’s face, something between forlorn and excited. He reached out and thumped Sidney’s chest with his fist and Sidney swallowed. He remembered, from the faded remnants of a dream, ducking down and tapping his helmet against Fleury’s, grinning at him after a win and tapping his pads after a loss. The memory, more vivid than it was in the original dream, slowly receded again and Sidney tapped the boards in front of Fleury before skating down to the net to stretch.

 

The officials seemed a bit more sympathetic towards the Penguins after they lost their goalie and suddenly all attempts by the players to draw penalties were working. Malkin gave a subtle fist pump as he pushed himself off the ice from a trip and saw the hand going up, pointing at the Flyer destined for the box.

Sidney shook his legs out and skated from side to side a few times, trying to keep his muscles limber as he watched the power play at the other end. The period was almost half gone already, the team keeping the puck down in the other end for the most part.

He flicked his gaze up to the clock and saw the timer run out, then over to the box where the player burst out and tapped his stick on the ice for the puck.

The Flyers were suddenly charging down the ice towards him and the Penguins defensemen moved into position, simultaneously blocking shot lanes and screening the puck-carrier from Sidney’s line of sight.

He caught a flash of numbers on an orange jersey and knew it was Giroux with the puck, and suddenly his subconscious pushed forward the exact shot Giroux was going to take, even behind the screen.

Moving into position, Sidney firmed up his stance just as the puck flashed by defenseman, tracking the exact path he had pictured. And, watching the puck hurtle towards him, he suddenly knew if he deflected it with his blocker, it would –

He batted the puck away and shoved off the goal post, skate and pad laying out on the goal line just in time for the Flyer lurking over his shoulder to smack the rebound into him. He lunged sideways, even as the player kept jabbing away, and covered the puck with his glove.

The whistle blew and Sidney blew out a shuddering breath.

 Penguins were immediately surrounding him, shoving out the frustrated Flyers, and Sidney grinned when he heard a call of “Good save!” from the bench. A heavy hand landed on his helmet and gave him a few pats, and Sidney glanced up to see Malkin skating off, looking back over his shoulder at Sidney with a hint of confusion in his face.

Sidney settled back in to wait for the play, the faceoff to his left. He winced slightly as he watched Malkin get into a position, an awkward one considering his reach and capabilities, but the captain managed to win it and send the puck down the ice and out of the zone.

It was mere shifts before a penalty was called again and a tired power play unit hopped out on the ice to attempt to score again. The other unit was already standing up at the bench, ready to hop out after a quick shift to give the other players some rest, and Sidney watched, out of the crease and about halfway to the blue line, as the unit rotated and wheedled in an attempt to score. Sullivan called for the change after a mere thirty seconds and players of both teams skated hard for the bench to change out. One of the defensemen shot the puck down towards Sidney to keep it out of reach of a shorthanded goal attempt and Sidney flicked his gaze around the ice before catching the puck on his blade. The Penguins would reach the bench first, he could tell, and there were only the two tired Flyers defensemen left out on the ice, both watching the change as well.

Sidney gulped and then took off down the ice. He had to dig in hard to move quickly with all the padding – a memory sparking in his head of flying down the ice without the heavy rectangular pads on his shins, darting around four players like some sort of hockey miracle – but he was all the way to the center line before either of the defenders even looked over.

The bench was screaming – half in encouragement, half rebuking him – along with the roar of the crowd, and Sidney, almost instinctually, ducked his head enough to hide his gaze from the defenseman hurtling towards him. The Flyer extended his stick towards him, intent on knocking the puck off his stick, and, echoing a move he made in a dream the week before, Sidney juked around him.

He could see in the corner of his eye the changes were complete, players pelting across the ice towards him and the net, and the last defensemen was set up between him and the net, looking almost anxious as he shifted from skate to skate. The stick of the other defender slapped at the back of his knee and Sidney dropped that leg, going to one knee to get enough leverage with his stick to slap the puck towards the gap he had spotted on the glove-hand side.

He held his breath as the puck soared forward, right past the defenseman, right past the desperate swipe of the glove, and into the back of the net.

The arena exploded with noise, the crowd screaming louder than before, and Sidney was suddenly surrounded by gloved hands patting at his helmet and shoulders. He could hear, over the voices of the players shouting their congratulations, the sound of the announcer calling out, “And a goal by…” the pause dragged out, long enough for his name to be whispered or passed over and was ended by a long, drawn-out, “Sidney…Cr-oooosby!”

Pain spiked through Sidney’s head again, probably because of the slaps against his helmet and the way guys were inadvertently shoving his head around, and his stomach swooped at the sound of his name.

He clambered up to his skates again, hands both helpful and useless as the other players tried to support him up from the ice, and then he was surrounded by a pair of long, warm, and somehow familiar arms. “Yeah!” Malkin screamed in his face and Sidney grinned. He whooped and the celly slowly broke apart, players skating towards the bench and Sidney following behind them slowly. He tapped his glove against the line of extended hands and made his way back to the net.

Finally catching his breath, he fixed his gaze back on the puck, at the other end of the ice, and prepared for the next play.

 

They lost in the end, even with Malkin scoring a tying goal with five minutes left in the period. The Flyers managed to score again down and dirty at the net, slapping at rebounds off a single shot, and at Sidney’s mask, until the puck somehow hopped over Sidney’s pads and into the net.

He shoved his mask up and bared his teeth at the gloating Flyer, Giroux again, standing in his crease, even as the rest of the players rushed off to the side to celebrate. Two Penguins shoved between them: Letang, grabbing Sidney’s shoulder and giving his lifted helmet a pat with the other glove, and Malkin, who bunched up his shoulders and skated forward menacingly towards the smirking player until he turned to join the celly.

 Sidney’s heart sunk when the buzzer finally rang and the Penguins trooped off the ice. He had wanted, no, needed to win – the competitiveness burning through him like nothing he could remember feeling. He wondered, tugging off his jersey in the locker room before reaching for his gear straps, if he had played professionally in some small league in his forgotten life.

But surely someone would be looking for him then, right?

 

 

The kids were overjoyed to see him the next day. “Crosby, Crosby, Crosby,” they chanted when he stepped through the doors. They surrounded him as he approached them with Mike, chirping about how they had seen him on television and asking what it was like to play in the NHL and if the Flyers were really as mean as their parents always said. Mike gave him a smirk and extracted himself from the group, heading towards the employee locker room.

Sidney ducked down and tried to answer as many questions as he could, pulling out the jersey, now clean, from his bag when they asked to see it, and little players split off in two’s and three’s after a few minutes to get ready for practice themselves. His group of goalies was left behind, whispering to each other, and he smiled at them in encouragement. “I told you it was real,” one of them suddenly blurted, red in the face and glaring at the boy next to him.

“Shut up, Davey,” the girl, Rachel, snapped, “No way could it be real.”

Dave frowned, lower lip trembling, and turned to Sidney, “Coach Sid, just tell them already. Come on.”

“Tell them what?” he asked, glancing from face to face.

Rachel rolled her eyes and said, with both frustration and curiosity in her voice, “They all think you played in the NHL, like for years.”

Sidney blinked and, before he had a chance to respond, one of the others spoke up. “We don’t think, we know! Coach Sid,” he turned imploringly to Sidney, “We all have dreams about you, when you played for the Penguins.” He emphasized, “All of us had them, and we didn’t even talk about it first.” He reached out, touching the jersey still held in Sidney’s hands, and added, “We dream about you wearing this, but with the ‘C’ right here.”

Dropping his eyes to the jersey, Sidney could almost see the ‘C’ there. He blinked the sight away and looked up at the kids. “Sorry, but I really never played before last night.”

Dave looked like he was about to cry again and he muttered, “I know I had your jersey, I know it.” He gave Sidney another sad look and then turned, and the four of them plodded away as Rachel wrapped her arm about Dave’s shoulders.

 

 

That night he dreams about playing again. He dreams of racing across the ice, puck on his stick and eyes darting from player to player to find the best route to the net. He dreams of throwing his arms in the air after scoring, of being surrounded by his teammates, of screaming his joy into Malkin’s face. He dreams of long summer days spent training, of early morning skates for practice, of late night work-outs to work out enough anxiety to sleep. He dreamed of aching knees and wrists, of a broken jaw, of a concussion so bad he couldn’t sit in a room with light for a week. He dreams of medals, of trophies, of a Cup so perfect he never wanted to let it go. He dreams of loving hockey, of loving the game, of loving the ice, of loving the shots and the goals and the jukes and the hits.

He dreams of when he was Sidney Crosby, captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins, first overall draft pick, and winner of Olympic golds and a Stanley Cup.

He wakes up with tears streaming down his face, an aching hole in his chest, and his head splitting with pain.

 

The headache fades within the hour and doesn’t come back, no matter how much he thinks about how things were before. He knew know exactly who he was, or at least who he had been before that day in April in the park. When he googles his name however, nothing comes up. When he called his parents’ home in Cole Harbour, they had never heard of anyone named Sidney.

But the kids had remembered him, so that was enough.

He asked Mike one morning, as they were carrying their bags out to the car, “Why exactly did you help me out?”

Mike, who was his best friend from childhood, who only moved to Pittsburgh because Sidney kept talking it up, who had celebrated his Cup win with him in 2009, glanced over and shrugged slightly. He opened his mouth, then closed it, a look of confusion coming over his face. “I just…” he shrugged, “It was like I knew you, but I didn’t. I recognized you, even though I’d never seen you before.” He smiled at Sidney, “It just felt right, to help you out I mean. It was like…I don’t know, it was like I was meant to see you that day, like the world just wanted it to happen.”

Sidney grinned at him, just to put him at ease, and replied, “I get that. And thanks.” Mike shakes his head, pops him in the shoulder, and puts the car in gear.

Sidney stayed late that day, waving Mike off when he glanced in after all the players had left the ice. The other man usually worked in his office after the day’s lesson, so Sidney had time to practice on his own. He waited until the door had fully shut behind Mike before grabbing a spare stick from the bench where he had left it earlier, the only one he could find with a small amount of curve.

He skated out to a pile of pucks and just started shooting.

 

It took him a week to finally start feeling normal about the angles and shots again. He could shoot the puck in from every angle he attempted, he could hit all four corners of the net whenever he wanted, he could wraparound, and he could even bat the puck in from the air.

Mike glanced in at him from time to time over the week, but he never asked about it. Maybe he thought Sidney was expanding his skill base so they could rotate the coaches around more often – Mike could coach any position even though he too specialized in goaltending.

Sidney was wiping the sweat away from his forehead when Mike popped in one evening. “Don’t forget we have the special event with the Penguins tomorrow,” he said, leaning over the boards. “A couple of them will be surprising the kids for that clinic and we’ll need to set up everything early.”

Sidney skated over and stepped off the ice. “Do you know which ones?” he asked, putting his skate guards on.

“Which players?” Mike asked in clarification. At Sidney’s nod, he answered, “I think just two, Fleury and Malkin.”

Sidney was glad to be facing the locker room door when he heard the names, to hide the grin that stole over his face. Geno and Flower – he knew them, he remembered them.

And the kids would love to see them too.

 

 

Instead of the Little Penguins program, since Sidney wasn’t there to found it, the team just supported the UPMC programs with specialty clinics like this one. The kids suspected what was going to happen when they walked in and saw all the special gear set up and they kept glancing towards the doors as Mike tried to go through the day’s off-ice lesson.

They all started squealing after a few minutes and Sidney glanced over to see the two Penguins trying to slip in the door. They both straightened up once the kids got loud enough and Fleury beamed and waved. 

Mike gave Sidney a nod – all the staff had discussed earlier and decided Sidney would make sure the players had everything they needed – and Sidney made his way down towards the two. His heart was racing in his chest but he kept a calm smile on his face as he reached them. “Hey, thanks for coming out to see the kids today,” he greeted.

Malkin glanced over and then did a double-take, a smile slowly creeping on his face in reply. Fleury turned towards him, eyes flicking over his face, and then sprung forward. “You fucker!” Fleury crowed, dragging him close by the neck of his practice jersey. He was laughing as he added, “You’re the one who scored in my fucking house before me!”

Sidney grinned at him, thumping the goalie on the chest with his closed fist. “Guess I’m just lucky,” he said with a shrug. Fleury looped his arm over Sidney’s shoulders and Sidney started down the hallway. He was tempted to put his arm around the man’s shoulders as well, but he was the only one who remembered all their years together, all their moments of friendship, so he just gave Fleury, Flower, a grin and a nod.

“Your skating though,” Flower snorted. A little under his breath, he muttered, “Not that I’m one to talk.” Sidney reached for the locker room door and glanced over his shoulder. Malkin was plodding along after them, looking a bit sleepy but darting excited glances towards the group on the ice.

Fleury turned towards the locker room and then turned, putting his hand on Sidney’s chest to hold him in place. He poked him in the chest and asked, “You played forward when you were younger or something? That goal…”

Sidney gave him another shrug and pulled the door open a little wider. “Something like that,” he said, waving them in.

 

“You need to work on your faceoffs,” Sidney called out, skating up to Malkin and snowing him lightly with his skates. He looked down at the ice shavings and then raised his eyebrows high as he peered at Sidney.

“And you expert?” he asked, scoffing slightly.

Sidney gave the little forward a smile, and the kid grinned back at him before skating off towards the next station, and then replied, skating closer, “I’m certainly better than you.”

Malkin’s eyes lit up with a competitive spark and he pushed forward a step on his skates. Looming over Sidney, he said, with a challenge in his tone, “Let’s see. Get puck to drop.” Lips curling in a grin, Sidney jerked his chin at one of the assistants, who quickly skated over with a bucket of pucks.

Sidney beat Malkin for nine faceoffs out of ten.

He tried to hold back the gleeful laugh and chirp at the mulish expression on Malkin’s face, but he must have smirked a bit because Malkin narrowed his eyes at him. “Okay,” he conceded, “You good. What about you show me technique later?”

Sidney blinked, not sure if what he heard in the tone was actually intentional, and then laughed with a shrug. “Stick around after the clinic and I can,” he said with a smile before skating back off towards the goalies.

 

“Goalie coach?” Malkin asked, poking Sidney’s pads with his stick.

Sidney shifted the pads back out of his reach as he pulled off the rest of his gear and replied, “Yeah. But I’ve played forward before.” He tilted his head up towards the man, “I’ve practiced with players just like you.” As in, he thought with a smirk, you in an alternate timeline.

He stood up, stretching up on his toes briefly, and turned to find Malkin staring off at the ice with his jaw clenched. He was used to seeing that face when his Geno was trying to focus all his attention on scoring a goal, but he wasn’t sure what in the practice rink could have caused that reaction. “Alright?” he asked, hopping over the boards and skating back and forth a bit to settle back into his skates.

Malkin dumped some pucks on the ice and nodded, scooping one up and stickhandling with it for a moment. Sidney watched him for a bit and then swooped in and stole the puck away, popping it over his stick and batting it to the ground a foot away.

The other player was on him in an instant, bumping Sidney hard in an attempt to work him off the puck. Laughing, Sidney bent his knees a little more and solidified his stance, skating off down the ice.

They went back and forth for a while until Malkin finally pushed the puck into the net. Sidney grinned at him, tapping his shin with his stick, and said, “And now imagine how much easier that would have been if you won the faceoff.”

“You cheat!” Malkin protested, heading back over to the pile of pucks.

Sidney tapped him with his stick again. “Everyone cheats,” he replied, laughing. He pushed a puck in front of Malkin and said, “Alright, now show me your stance again.”

 

Malkin huffed as Sidney snatched the puck away again and glanced over at the clock on the wall. “Okay, practice over,” he declared, moving towards the boards. He snatched his phone up and held it out towards Sidney, “Give number and we do again?” He shrugged and smiled ruefully, “I’m can tell tips actually help.”

Sidney shook off one glove and typed in the number of the small flip phone he had. Malkin looked over the details when he took back his phone and then looked up at him. He read off, “Sidney?” He paused for a moment, musing, before saying firmly, “Sid.”

The familiar tone, the same cadence, it was just like being back with the player he had known for more than a decade. Sidney gulped, head spinning a bit, before smiling. “Then Geno is fine?”

Geno nodded and Sidney saw, out of the corner of his eye as he turned, a searching look come over his face as his eyes scanned Sidney’s profile. As if he was trying to place a familiar face.

 

They texted back and forth a lot about plays, especially the power play. Sidney liked to text Geno during games like a running commentary, like he used to do on the bench to his linemates. He would receive the replies later that night or the next morning, mostly little ‘(((’ faces if Sidney’s critiques were right on the dot about reasons for a loss and smug affirmations if Geno had already done as Sidney suggested.

When Geno was in town, they practiced a few times a week – Sidney passing on power play strategies and set-ups to Geno to suggest to their coach as if the ideas were his own. “Coach thinks I’m so smart,” Geno crowed one day, circling Sidney on the ice with a gloating grin. He had scored two power play goals the day before, setting up on the half-wall where Sidney had known the Bolts were weak to defend this season.

“Well, try not to let him see the truth,” Sidney chirped, flicking a puck towards him.

Geno caught it, rotating his stick in the air to deliver the puck to the ice, and shot it gently to bounce off Sidney’s shin, baring his teeth in mock-rage. Sidney chuckled and shot the puck at the net – bar down and in.

 

When they played hockey together, it was like nothing else even mattered. Sidney remembered always wondering if it would be the same for him with other players, but this was something just he and Geno shared. With the puck on his stick and his skates on the ice, Sidney could suddenly communicate every thought, every action to Geno as if their minds were connected. Their eyes would flick, their hands shift minutely on the stick, and both would know immediately what the other was thinking. This was especially true when Sidney was trying to diagram a play – Geno would watch the gestures of his hands, nodding along at the marks on the boards even when Sidney started speaking too fast to be intelligible, and then would skate off and execute the exact intent. It was the same in reverse, Geno fit gestures with his hands and stick in between his words, patch-working them together into an explanation Sidney could understand perfectly, because it was all just hockey and hockey, to them, was the thing they knew and loved best. It was as if hockey was their common language, a secret code shared between the two of them so they could speak without words.

Sidney loved those moments the most out of everything he had in this strange, pseudo-existence since April. Passing the puck to Geno, connecting in a way they had on the ice during games, arguing with him about plays and strategies – those moments were the closest Sidney had to being himself again, to pretending that someone in the world remembered him for who he was.

It was during one of their practices, when Sidney was setting up for a no-look pass, that he felt Geno’s eyes on him, heavy and constant, and knew just exactly what he was thinking, what he wanted in that very moment. He licked his lips, passed the puck, and turned to watch it land right on the tape of Geno’s stick. The man pivoted and smacked the puck into the net and looked back over his shoulder at Sidney, eyes hot and piercing.

Sidney skated towards him slowly, heart in his throat and eyes fixed on Geno’s face. The man placed his stick on the top of the net slowly, shaking off his gloves to drop there as well, and then reached out, touching Sidney’s arm with a hesitant hand before circling Sidney’s bicep with those long fingers.

“Sometimes I’m think…” he drifted off, gaze fixed on Sidney’s face.

Sidney watched his eyes flick down towards his lips for a moment before they lifted again.

“It’s like…I’m know you, but I don’t,” he shrugged, the motion jostling Sidney’s arm.

He skated a little closer and gripped Geno’s forearm, locking them together more firmly. “You think you know me sometimes?” he asked, probing for the sentence he desperately hoped for, for Geno to confess he knew who Sidney had been. His heart was thumping hard, and he could feel the pulse of it in his neck.

Geno reached up with his other hand, thumb pressing against that pulse point and they both shuddered. Brow furrowing, Geno opened his mouth and then gave a little shrug.

And then he pulled Sidney in by that grip on his neck and pressed their lips together.

Sidney remembered this – remembered the touch of their lips when they drank from the Cup together, remembered the lacing of their fingers after just like they were laced now. He never remembered that tongue dipping between his lips though, no, this part was completely new.

He pulled back when he felt Geno shudder again and the man looked dazed, staring down at him. Geno lifted his hand and touched that puffy lower lip, gazing off in the distance, and then his eyes snapped to Sidney’s.

“Sid,” he said, voice a little hoarse and broken. Sidney was grabbed up, arms wrapping around him and Geno’s face pressing into his neck. “Oh, Sid,” he muttered again. Sidney brought up his arms, clutching Geno tight, and bit his lip to fight back tears when Geno added, softly, “I’ve had dreams…”

 

 

Once Geno remembered, he wanted Sidney to move in with him. “But you’re Sid!” he protested when Sidney turned down the offer, “You! You best player in world!” Sidney could only imagine the awkwardness of some sort of story getting out about a random homeless man moving in with Pittsburgh’s star player.

He wanted to take Sidney in to the team as well, which Sidney again turned down. “People will think you’re crazy if you try to tell them about this,” Sidney said, trying not to roll his eyes. He tugged off his skate and quickly peeled off his sweaty sock. Geno hovered next to him, shifting from skate to skate. Sighing, Sidney said, “Even if I show them how I play, I’m not getting signed mid-season.” Geno met his eyes with a forlorn gaze. “You know the team is right against the cap.” When Geno ducked his head, staring at the floor, Sidney gave up and added, “Maybe next season, I’ll try out at camp.”

Geno’s head popped up and he smiled. Thumping down on the bench next to Sidney, he started pulling off his gear. “Great! Best player,” he jerked his thumb at himself, “Needs play with second best,” he pointed at Sidney.

Rolling his eyes, Sidney ducked down to reach his other skate. He let the smile fall from his face as he tilted his head away from the other man. He knew he’d never be able to play in the NHL. How would he explain not having an identity on record? Not having a bank account? Not having a Social Security number for health insurance?

No, he thought, running a finger down the spare stick Geno had brought him a few weeks before, as long as he was in this world where no one remembered him, he would never play NHL hockey again.

 

He did go home with Geno that night, however, and several nights here and there. Mike teased him about his new girlfriend, and Sidney gave him a little shrug and sheepish smile to avoid saying anything else about it.

Kissing Geno was welcome stress relief. The intimacy that came from putting his arms around another human being, pressing close and sharing the same air, was comforting after so many months feeling like he was alone in the world.

For Geno, Sidney assumed it was just an outlet for stress and frustration, just like most players viewed casual sex on the road between games. A few times, Geno called Sidney over after a win and they tussled on the bed, fighting for dominance, before pinning each other down and working off all the charged energy in the room. After losses, Geno would catch Sidney up in his arms, snarl into his skin as he bit and sucked his way across, and roughly handle him however he pleased until they were both sated.

It was just casual sex between friends, just stress relief, and it was perfect.

 

And he did eventually allow Geno to get him a ticket to the next major home game. At first, he wanted to put Sidney in the team box with the injured players, management, and family members, but Sidney shook his head and said, “Whatever kind of ticket you get your parents, that’s enough.”

He didn’t want to be in the box with people who should have known him and watch a team he no longer had any share in. He didn’t want to sit in the same box he had sat helpless in after his concussion and feel just as helpless about his circumstances.

So instead he took the ticket at the blue line and took mental notes throughout the game of suggestions to feed to Geno for his line and for the power play. He watched with glee as Geno took a shot from one of the set-ups they had practiced the week before, though the puck dinged off the post just centimeters from the net. The buzzer sounded soon after and Sidney hopped up to grab a bottled water between periods.

He was trying to fight his way through the crowd, but there was a heavy stream of people headed for the bathrooms, so he was inching his way forward just a few feet at a time. Sidney dodged around one fan and then felt a touch on his sleeve and heard an exclamation of “Oh, lord, she didn’t.” Sidney turned, catching sight of an older woman standing a few feet away, staring at him with a pale, pale face.

“Ma’am?” Sidney asked, working his way through the crowd back to her.

She stared at him with wide eyes and then looked down and away. Sidney’s head suddenly spiked with pain and they both winced. “I can’t…” she drifted off. “Here, just,” the woman dug in her purse and pulled out a piece of a paper and a pen. “I’m sorry,” she said as she wrote something out, “I wish I could –” They both winced again as Sidney’s headache spike. “I can’t interfere,” she said, as if it was an explanation.

She pushed the note into Sidney’s hand and took off down the hallway, disappearing into the crowd.

Sidney looked down and read the note, breath catching in his throat.

You’re not crazy. You’ve been cursed as if you never existed.

 

Knowing both changed things and didn’t. Now Sidney was wondering just why he had been cursed, wondering why he couldn’t remember it happening, wondering if it could be reversed. Geno thought it was the best news he’d ever heard – muttering about how there had to be a way to fix it, pressing Sidney for details about the woman he saw in hopes of finding her and asking questions.

Sidney didn’t tell him he knew exactly who the woman was. He didn’t see the point in having Geno visit Alice, she had already said she couldn’t interfere. If they could do anything about the curse, they’d have to figure it out on their own.

 

But first, of course, someone else tried to help.

Well, someones.

“Coach Sid,” his smallest goalie said sternly, grabbing Sidney’s sleeve, “This is an intervention.”

“An intervention?” he echoed, holding back his laugh. “What do you mean?”

“You know and we know that you’re actually a Pittsburgh Penguin,” he informed Sidney. “Jake saw you and Geno yesterday after practice. He said you were both laughing.” Jake, off to the side, nodded his head emphatically. “That’s proof,” he emphasized, “That you’re actually really a Penguin.”

“Oh, I see.” He looked over the eager faces and gave them a little smile.

“And so, we’re going to help you.” The goalies all nodded their heads in unison, while the group behind them shouted “yeah!” and “let’s do it!” sporadically.

Sidney nodded soberly and asked, “How are you going to help?”

The kids glanced at each other and seemed at a bit of a loss for words. “I know!” one of them shouted and the players all turned to him and started whispering. They giggled and tittered and then suddenly Sidney was surrounded by the group of them as they locked arms and started skating in a slow circle.

Sidney tried to hold back a smile as they wobbled whenever the weakest skaters lost their balance, so he instead winced when they started chanting his name, “Sidney Crosby, Sidney Crosby.”

The boy who had spoken up started saying over and over, softer than the others, “Make Sidney Crosby captain again, please, make him a Penguin again.”

The other coaches were watching with wide but amused eyes from the other end of the ice and Sidney gave them a small wave as the children kept circling.

They finally gave up after a minute or two and several of them groaned, eyeing Sidney like he was the reason their ‘ritual’ hadn’t worked. “I totally saw it in a movie though,” the ringleader confessed to Sidney in an undertone before shrugging and skating off down the ice.

 

Sidney told Geno the whole story the next time they got together, on a Saturday night when Geno had just returned home from a road trip. “They knew because we laughing? Smart kids,” Geno joked, but he had a contemplative look on his face.

Putting down the play board he was holding, Sidney started to open his mouth. Geno suddenly turned towards him, leaning into the pillows so their faces were close, and said quickly, “You know I do anything for you, yes?”

Sidney blinked up at him and a certain memory came to mind. “I know,” he said, “One time, you wore the _ka_ here for me, that’s what you told me it was called.” He traced out the К on Geno’s chest. “Do you remember?”

Geno remembered him from before, yes, but not like Sidney did. His memory was spotty, just the major details, and Sidney found himself biting his tongue as he waited for the response. He wanted this one, more than any other to be one of those memories they still shared.

“Wore К? For you?” Geno asked, eyes widening as he looked down at the finger on his chest. “I…” He swallowed hard and tugged Sidney in, locking their lips together. “Kapitan,” he muttered against his mouth. He shook his head, groaning, and rolled over to push Sidney down into the mattress.

 

Sidney found out just what that contemplative look had been about a few days later. Geno picked him up after work with a pile of books in the passenger seat. Sidney raised his eyebrows when he picked up the first one, Sympathetic Magic on the cover, and looked over at Geno.

“So I’m think we need to try something,” Geno said, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he focused on the road. He reached over and clasped Sidney’s hand, “I’m do anything for you, to have you back on ice with me.”

Sidney tried to imagine if the situation was reversed. He would do the same, he knew, because Geno was so good, had gone through so much to get to the NHL, he deserved to be on the ice. He picture the gaping hole at his side the team would be if Geno were gone, pictured how much he would miss their slick, almost-telepathic passes, and he looked down at the books in his lap.

 

“It says it needs…the essence of someone who knows me,” Sidney read off the page, crinkling his nose. “What do you think that mea–?” He glanced over to see Geno reaching into his pants. “Whoa, what are you doing?” The sun was still shining in the kitchen window and Sidney would never even think about doing that outside of the bedroom in broad daylight.

Geno glanced at him and raised his eyebrows, “Get ‘essence’.” He was smirking as he moved his fist under the cover of his sweatpants and Sidney flushed.

“No way am I drinking that,” Sidney stated firmly. “Just like,” he shrugged, adding a little desperately, “Go run on your treadmill and come back when you start sweating.”

Geno leaned in, leering at him, “I know better way to get sweaty.” His hand started sliding up Sidney’s leg from his thigh.

Laughing, Sidney pushed him back and pointed fiercely, “Go. Run.”

In the end, the potion tasted like a filthy bar smelled and Sidney grimaced as he swallowed it down, trying to fool himself by imagining it was just a protein shake. He placed the glass down on the counter carefully, because he was tempted to fling it away from his body, and he and Geno watched each other for a long moment.

“Nothing?” Geno asked, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “Maybe should have used –”

“No,” Sidney replied, rolling his eyes. “I just think something out of ‘So You Want to Be a Potion-Master?’ probably isn’t guaranteed to work anyway.” His tone must have said more than his words, because Geno gathered him in and squeezed him tight.

The only person in the world who remembered him.

 

 

The potion didn’t do anything, besides making Sidney never want to taste kiwi juice again. He shook it off, the disappointment at the failure, the exasperation with himself that he got his hopes up, and settled into a rhythm again of coaching the kids and practicing with Geno in the player’s free time.

Geno took him out to dinner one night, zipping along in his sports car while Sidney clutched the armrest, to a steak restaurant they had visited once when they were younger.

Sidney sighed in contentment as he licked his lips of the last of his wine and glanced around the room. A man at a far-side table had put his hat down next to his seat and Sidney studied the text on the front – a 2009 Stanley Cup Champions hat.

He turned to Geno, who was sitting back in his chair watching Sidney with a soft smile on his face, and asked, “Why do you think you haven’t won another Cup yet?” He had always, guiltily, guessed his Penguins had failed to win another Cup because of how many games Sidney had lost to his concussion. He would always regret the playoffs he missed, even though he had tried to make up for it by coaching and spotting for the team, because of the injury.

Geno leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and folding his arms. He gave a little shrug and chewed at his lip for a moment. “It’s hard,” he started haltingly, “Is like, even perfect regular season can be…” He gave Sidney a look, “You know. Regular season mean nothing when get to playoffs. Can be easy to,” he shrugged again, “To get lots goals. Then none in playoffs.”

Sidney nodded and reached out to touch Geno’s hand for a fleeting moment. “But,” he continued, “I always feel like, looking at team, we need more.” His foot touched one of Sidney’s under the table. “Sometimes I’m think something missing, for another Cup. Like we waiting for something,” he looked hard at Sidney, eyes searching his face, “Now I know – we waiting for you.”

He gave a little shake of his head. “Best chance for Penguins to win is me and you together.” He laughed and said, “And Flower.”

“And Tanger,” Sidney added with a grin.

Geno grinned back and shook his head softly. “But most important is you and me, two headed monster.” He winked at Sidney and roared softly. Sidney laughed again and, as he tilted his head back, Geno added, “Maybe this year, we win. Because you helping me.”

Sidney nodded at him, smiling, and kept his reply to himself. Maybe it would be enough, to watch from the stands as his team, playing without him, lifted the Cup again. Maybe it would be enough to hoist the Cup himself at Geno’s party after – he knew he would be invited – and pretend he had been on the ice too. Maybe it would be enough if they drank from the Cup together again, both knowing exactly how the team got where they were.

Maybe, he thought with growing surety, maybe he could be content with that.

 

 

As close as they were to the end of the season, Geno and Sidney spent more time scrimmaging together than trying to come up with any more plays. The Penguins would either make the playoffs or they wouldn’t, but Sidney could tell from Geno’s energy after his team practices that the momentum was on their side.

Scrimmaging was more fun and left them feeling more energized after, so they often went to Geno’s place. “I have best idea,” Geno told him one afternoon as he trotted after Sidney in the parking lot. He grinned at him, and Sidney’s chest felt tight as he returned the grin and tilted his head slightly. “Okay, idea is you come home to see Mama. My parents are here because almost playoffs now.”

Sidney stopped flat out and blinked at Geno who continued a few steps forward before turning around. “No, no,” Geno said, shaking his head, “Is okay. Is for,” he shrugged, “Word is…She not witch but more like,” he wobbled his hand in the air from side to side. “Good spell.”

Taking a step forward, Sidney asked, “You mean she has magic?” He wondered for a moment if that was true in his own universe as well, and quickly shook his head at the thought of it.

Geno shook his head, “Just some, some little.” He pinched his fingers together and repeated, “Little.” He threw his arm over Sidney’s shoulders and drew him in, pulling him towards the car. “Is okay, just let’s ask and see.”

Sidney held his tongue, not wanting to add more confusion, but he was about to meet the parents of a world-famous NHL player in a universe where he was nothing but a random guy who was friends with their son. The parents who were from Russia and, from his personal experience, didn’t speak much English. Well, he thought with a shrug as he got in the passenger seat, he’d leave the explaining to Geno.

And so he did, remaining silent as Geno bustled them in the front door and called out, “Mama!” and a string of Russian Sidney hoped was to let his mom know he had brought a friend home.

A woman called out in reply, voice echoing slightly, and then Sidney heard the tap of feet. She was still speaking as she rounded the corner and she stopped where she stood.

They stared at each other for a moment, wide-eyed, and then she flicked her gaze to Geno and snapped out a sentence. Sidney pulled his hands out of his pockets and clenched them together behind his back. She was just the same as the person he knew in his old life. Seeing her there, memories of all the times he had been over for a dinner or lunch at Geno’s home flashed through his mind – laughing with Natalia and Vladimir at their son and his stories.

She looked back at Sidney as Geno started to reply, before stepping closer slowly. Her eyes ran from head to toe and back again, and Sidney started to worry about just how Geno had introduced him.

Geno’s hand pressed against the small of his back just as he was tempted to step backwards and Geno ducked down to murmur to him, “She see curse. Yell at me I’m not bring you more soon.”

“Oh!” Sidney replied, glancing at him over his shoulder before looking back at Natalia as she approached. He could see the concern in her eyes now and he gave her a smile and stepped forward. “I’m Sidney,” he offered her hand.

She clasped his hand between her own and looked into his eyes. “Natalia,” she replied, before she reached up and touched Sidney’s temple. She clicked her tongue and snapped her gaze to her son.

Rattling off more Russian, she shook her head and dropped Sidney’s hand. She hurried back down the hallway and Geno laughed as he stepped forward. “So mad,” he mused. “Is okay, Sid,” he added, grabbing Sidney’s hand and squeezing it, “She says she has thing to try.”

He tugged Sidney down the hallway and they turned to reach the kitchen at the end. Natalia was bustling from drawer to drawer and she darted a look over her shoulder to smile at Sidney once before bending over the counter and working with the ingredients she had gathered.

“Please not another weird drink,” Sidney muttered, casting his gaze upwards briefly, and he looked back down to see Natalia’s lips curled in the same wry smirk her son had. She held out a small cloth pouch, round with filler, towards him, and he took it as she said, “Sleep with,” with a jerk of her chin at the pouch. She said something to Geno in Russian and then turned to the sink to wash her hands.

Geno touched the pouch with his fingertip and then nudged it towards Sidney’s jacket pocket. “She says you sleep with it under pillow for week. Is supposed to,” he paused, swallowed, and then gave a little shrug, “Supposed to help bring back lost thing.”

Sidney glanced up at him and saw that Geno’s eyes were sad and the corners of his mouth were turned down in something close to a frown. He tucked the pouch away and said, “Thank you,” shifting his gaze from Geno to Natalia.

She shrugged as well and gave him a faint smile before offering, “Stay for dinner, yes?”

 

The pouch didn’t work, much to Geno’s frustration, and he pointed to Sidney and told him he had to find the next idea.

And, well, Sidney knew a few websites.

Not because he was superstitious, but because he liked to keep up-to-date on pop culture.

Geno snorted and shoved him away from the laptop, snarking, “You listen to music from 90s, what pop culture?” He hummed and murmured as he scrolled through the forum and then he shot a flinty look Sidney’s way.

“What?” Sidney asked, trying to see the screen.

With a smirk, Geno clicked his tongue and pointed towards door. “Go see if Mike in tonight. I’m gonna get stuff and come over later.”

Mike laughed in his face when Sidney asked, face flushed, if he had any plans for the evening. “What, you’re bringing your girlfriend over?” Holding up his hands, he chuckled and said, “Alright, man, just keep it to your room.”

“Oh,” Sidney muttered, thinking about some of the posts he had seen on that site before, “We definitely will.”

 

“If I didn’t know better,” Sidney said wryly, “I’d say you’re just trying to have sex with me.” He shifted his knees to try to get more comfortable.

“Me?” Geno replied, aghast, “I’m never trick into sex. Just ask.” His hand pet down Sidney’s back and then he pinched right where thigh met ass. At Sidney’s yelp, he added, “You always say yes, no?” He rolled the barbell a little more forward and then placed a rubber guard under the weight to keep it in place.

Sidney shuddered when Geno gripped his hips and tugged them up higher, his knees pushing at the insides of Sidney’s until he spread them more. He was left almost suspended from the waist, tips of his knees barely brushing the yoga mat beneath them, and Geno chuckled at the way he was squirming before lowering him back down slightly. “Alright,” he hummed. “We have candles,” he gestured towards the one Sidney could see, the flame quivering at the gust of air. “We have circle,” he touched the chalk circle next to Sidney’s head and tapped his nose with the chalk-coated finger.

Sidney sneezed lightly as Geno continued, “We have full moon.” The light was shining through the window right down to light Sidney’s body and make the chalk shine with reflected light. “And,” Geno continued, smugly, “We have sacrifice.” He smacked Sidney’s ass and then petted it. “Good?”

Swallowing hard, Sidney nodded and then pressed his forehead into the mat. “Yeah, we’re, we’re good.”

The forum post had said this was the best ritual to make one focused wish come true. Sidney was supposed to think about his wish at the very moment of climax but, he gulped as he felt Geno’s hands slide up the inside of his thighs, he knew that would be a real challenge.

But Sidney loved challenges.

Sidney tried to roll his hips back into Geno’s hands as they finally reached their targets. Most of his leverage was gone from how he was stretched out, hands tied to the barbell out in front of him and knees spread almost too wide, but he managed a slight nudge at the fingers petting him.

Geno muttered under his breath, loud enough Sidney could hear, “So big, just so big.” Sidney flushed and Geno added, directed right to him, “You so big I can barely find where to start.” Fingers gripped at his cheeks, pulling apart until Sidney felt cool air down to his perineum, and Geno hummed in satisfaction. “There,” his thumb, dry and roughly-calloused, circled at Sidney’s hole, “So big except here.”

He shifted behind Sidney and then there was a touch of tongue at his hole, testing and gentle, before Geno dipped down to nibble at the ridge running down towards his balls. Sidney jerked and wiggled, trying to get him away from the sensitive place, but Geno tightened his grip and pressed his face further in. He nipped and licked, catching Sidney’s balls up between his teeth in a tease before just as quickly releasing them and rimming at his tight hole with his tongue, until Sidney was hard and dripping, gasping out curses and trembling from clenched fingers to curled toes.

“Okay,” Geno murmured, shifting back and away. His hands slipped slightly on Sidney’s sweat-slicked skin, and he gave Sidney a final possessive squeeze before pulling his hands away.

Sidney panted into the mat as he waited, anticipation tingling down his spine and skin hot on his face where the heat of the candles could reach him. He nearly flinched at the pop of the lube cap and he licked his lips as he waited eagerly. Geno’s hands were back just a moment later, one hand spreading him apart again and the other slipping down, stroking a few times at his cock until he was thrusting his hips forward into the firm grip. “Come on,” Geno encouraged, “Let me see how bad you want.”

Sidney groaned and set his forehead more firmly before settling in to rock his hips down in a steady pattern. He heard Geno rumble in approval for gripping almost too tightly and then the grip was gone. Before Sidney could catch his breath, a finger traced the spit-slicked rim of his hole and then pushed in, steadily and firmly, to the second knuckle.

Geno started up a continual muttering of praise and encouragement as he finger-fucked him, first with the one finger, petting at his prostate and spreading the lube deep, and then with a second, scissoring and spreading. He hooked the rim of Sidney’s hole with his other thumb, dragging at it while he spread his fingers wide. Sidney moaned and muttered, “G, please, just,” and Geno shifted a bit closer.

He pressed hard at Sidney’s prostate, massaging and pinching it between two fingers, until his jaw dropped open and he yelped at each press. “Geno!” he finally shouted, feet scrabbling at the mat, “Please!”

Geno laughed, darkly, and pulled his hands away. Sidney felt his cock throbbing, his peak so close already, and whimpered when Geno’s hands returned, hands settling at his hips with thumbs pulling at his cheeks. “Let’s go,” Geno crooned as he pressed forward, the pressure increasing against Sidney’s hole until the head popped through, and then it was one smooth push until Geno’s hips were flush against his own.

Sidney gulped, whimpered, and then gulped again as he tried to get used to the fullness. Geno bent down enough to press a kiss to his back, mouthing at his shoulder blade, and then straightened out and encouraged Sidney to roll his hips using his grip. Groaning, Sidney did as directed, rim burning and prostate shoved with every shift.

They had had rougher sex - no-prep sex, muscle-burning sex, bent-over-the-couch-crying sex - but this was different somehow. Almost to the point of unbearable. Because Sidney was trying to think of what he wanted, what he needed: the curse broken so he could have his life back. But every shift of Geno’s hips, every flinch of Geno's fingers where they gripped, just brought to mind how this wasn’t what he would be going back to. When the curse was broken, this Geno would disappear.

Head swirling with thoughts, thighs burning from the position, Sidney gnashed at his lip before finally opening his mouth. “I don’t think I can keep-” he said, voice cracking, “Geno, I can’t.” He couldn’t give this up, this intimacy, this added depth to their friendship, this lo-

“Hmm?” he replied, sliding one hand down Sidney’s back to grip at his hair. “You can’t?” He tugged his head to the side and leaned down, lips almost touching his ear. Breath tickling Sidney’s cheek, Geno said firmly, “You want wish, as sacrifice, yes?”

He did, he did want it. He wanted hockey, but he wanted, he wanted- “Yes,” Sidney gasped out, trying to jerk his hips forward to get away from the overwhelming pressure, “Yes, I want it.”

Geno caught up his mouth, giving him a firm kiss, and then said, “Then take and think about wish.” He rolled his hips, pulling out in one long, long slide before thrusting in fast. “Think about hockey.” He did it again, grinding in as he went and gripping at Sidney’s hip tightly. “Think about what you love.”

Sidney thought about having his life back. He thought about hockey.

And, as he came with a groan, he thought about Geno.

 

 

The potion didn’t work, the charm pouch didn’t work, the sacrifice didn’t work.

Sidney Crosby remains Sidney Crosby, junior goalie coach for UPMC, forgotten by all but one man in the world, not Sidney Crosby, captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins, two-time Olympic gold winner and 2009 Champion of the Stanley Cup.

 But, Sidney reminds himself from time to time, he still has hockey. He has ice every day to practice on, he has children to coach and a way to spread love for the game, he has sessions with Geno to play as he once did.

It’s enough, he reminds himself. It’s more than he had just half a year before.

And he has this, he thinks, settling back in his seat as the timer ran out for intermission. The whistle was blown and play started back up, the Penguins darting down the ice with the burning motivation to win their last home game for the regular season.

There was sudden movement on the ice and Sidney perked up in his seat, eyes tracking the puck with expert precision and spotting the exact gap in the defense Bonino was watching. A stick slapped against the puck and the arena erupted as the puck hit the twine.

Sidney leaped to his feet, throwing his hands in the air as if he were on the ice celebrating with the team instead of in the stands.

"I- do I know you? You look familiar, I’ve been wondering all game," the man next to him said, elated grin still on his face from the goal.

Sidney glanced back down at the ice again, where Geno was peering up towards him from the bench, and replied, "I was the guy who played goalie a few months ago - were you here for that game?"

Laughing, the man answered, "That's it! Wow. What was that even like?"

Geno finally shifted his gaze away from Sidney as the puck was dropped at the other end of the ice. Sidney watched the players battle in the corner for a moment before turning to the man with a smile, "It was the second best moment of my life." Geno pushed himself up, did the little skate-to-skate shuffle players did as they anticipated jumping over the boards, and got himself over for the change. "Only behind the moment I fell in love for the first time," Sidney added, softly, as Geno snagged the puck and took off down the ice on a breakaway.

Sidney's fingers twitched in his lap, as if he were the one toe dragging the puck and lining up for the shot.

His stick flicked, the puck went in, the buzzer went off, and Sidney jumped up with his hands in the air. Geno pointed up towards him as he screamed his joy on the ice and, yeah, Sidney was the happiest he had ever been in his life.

Sidney wanted to tell him, at that very moment, wanted to just scream it out to the whole arena. But instead, he flopped back into his chair, exhilaration racing through his veins and making his head spin. He tilted his head back, grinning up at the ceiling and already imagining just how he’d tell Geno that night after the win, and then he closed his eyes to stop the spinning.

 

 

 

Sidney Crosby woke up from what felt like a long, long dream to the sound of his alarm going off. He reached for his phone, hand moving past the picture of Taylor and his parents, past the day calendar for April 2015, past the picture of his 2009 team gathered around the Cup, and he thumbed the alert off.

Silence fell over the room for a long moment and then Sidney yawned, stretched, and remembered the past seven months spent in a world not his own. With a small smile on his face, he scrolled through his contacts to call the man he loved.

The man who, though Sidney didn't know it yet, already loved him back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're interested, [ this was my reference for the discussion of emergency goalies](https://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/nhl/2016/12/06/emergency-goalies-eric-semborski-rob-laurie/95044812/#).
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments and kudos appreciated!


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